


From Here To Oblivion

by Dratz



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: (Based on the ending of S1E20), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 23:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15983147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dratz/pseuds/Dratz
Summary: The dead have no place here. Nor do the living. It's hard for Starscream to see either side of that equation, after being forsaken by the Decepticons and then captured by the Autobots. Escaping the latter faction, he takes to the wilderness on his own, determined beyond all reason to do what he does best: survive.





	From Here To Oblivion

He made it over the crest of the hill. The sun was setting on the other side, another day, another loss. So much for the Autobots and their promise of peace. He left that behind him. He left footprints there too, for a moment, scraping his way among the earth, among stones. Then he scowled as the sun as it sank into the hills--let them have it, let them mourn and bleed and kill each other, let them _fall_. He was bitter about it, about the scar on his cheek, the slivers on his wrists rubbed raw by their shackles. His wings were chained still. That angered him. He made his way slowly across the dust while the sunbeams drank his shadow. Where his shadow grew longer and swallowed the stones, his footsteps were heavy with the weight of something from deep in his spark. He did not want to feel that, a lingering sort of pain, that fear. Following him all the way here at his heels. Always closing in.

Fighting with them had always been difficult. But he was not sorry. Not to have survived, to have escaped from their claws and their clasps and the stupid, cumbersome looks on their faces. They saw him a certain way, in the light, in the dark, always something with a strangled silhouette, a crooked smile with crooked teeth and a crooked view of the world. That much was true--there was pain, and there was death, and there was the sun going farther and farther away from him and spitting out the last of its life. He hurried, one foot after the other. Downhill was easier, quicker, even with the dust in his eyes. Starscream never once looked over his shoulder, for he'd a long, long way to go.

But he could not rest. They could catch him still, if they wanted. He wasn't sure they would try, their Scout being preoccupied, the others more or less _immobilized_ , somewhere at the bottom of the hill. _Hah!_ That had been his doing. Somewhere on the other side. 

 He had to put some distance between them, get away, get _free_. And  being grounded was dangerous, was _nauseating_. 

He grit his teeth, tightly. Touched not by light but by the darkness on the other side of the ridge--this was what he knew, this was what he routinely told. Somehow, he would have to remove the clamp on his wings. 

That was an awful thing to do--to tie a Seeker's wings. He felt sick still, as if the world were diving down on him, and he could not hold the weight, not without his wings to lift him, to bear him, to take him from a wounded place of pride and persistence. He could have gotten away from them a long time ago, but he could not fly. Not like this. The steel pressed against the leading edges, biting him and barring him from his bloodied, open sky. 

Once or twice, he tried to slash the clamp, claws ripping at the rims, but he could never quite reach it. Or never quite cut it deep enough, tearing instead into someplace near his spine, gritting his teeth hard in frustration. He would lash out at some crevice or some rock formation underfoot, stomping and swiping and swearing in silence. So he could only go on, keeping a swift and troubled pace, until the sun set at last and the stars were above and beyond him, shining in place of sweet dreams.

He had convinced himself that they'd followed him--on at least. Perhaps more, planning on surrounding him. And when he spoke into the wind, which came unrivaled across the sweeping plains, he heard something soft in the distance. A stone falling or shifting, an echo redirected, maybe some Autobot missing their footing in the canyons or in the dark, cloaked, so that his scanners and his sensors could not detect them. 

He shivered at that thought, being out here in the open, where they could close in on him from any side, and where the dark spun out into vast swatches of nothing, and the sky beckoned, calling him to come. The thought of safety spanning forever out of reach.

He twisted a shoulder around and slashed at the wing clamp again, catching only air. Another strange sound far past the shadow of his footsteps snuck in-between the dark spaces. But he did not stop--he swung himself around, checking that darkness and the old hill for any signs of life, and hurried along. He came eventually to the edge of a ravine, where the slopes descended to a gorge, and the wind wept and wound its way down where it howled and twisted and made many sharp turns. He could not cross over it, being chained. It was many wingspans wide and impossibly deep--he could not see the bottom without the aid of his scanners. 

Having little choice and little objection, he descended there, to be among the stones, and the sentinel cliffs overlooking their own edge of the world, wondering what it was like to face out in several directions. This he did slowly, for the slopes were uneven and his footing was unstable at best. At times he knelt to keep his balance, and sunk his claws into the wall of the canyon to grip it, to know it. The dust cached and carpeted his armor, but he could not be bothered to care at this point--there were other things dancing all around in his mind. 

He was making too much noise. If those damned Autobots were here, they would certainly hear him, pinpoint his location now. It was all he could do to keep moving, to climb and slip his way down the wall and to the bottom of the canyon, where the river bed was dry, and the stones had been smoothed with time and patience. It was now that he noticed the empty crowns of the mountains just over the other side of the gorge, also weathered, still sharp. They carried themselves close to the starlight and the guidance of a crescent moon.  

And while he wandered down there he relived what it was like to be beaten within an inch of his life, to be berated and to be shamed. The Deceptions had forsaken him now--that much was very clear. He was tired. And jaded. And he wanted badly to lay down and to rest his head, but there was too much to be done and too much dust he had to leave between him and his would-be pursuers--Autobot or Decepticon alike. For his Master would surely send someone to terminate him, and the Autobots were surely looking to recapture him or to exact their revenge... He was more vengeful than they'd ever be. The lot of them. There was something heavy and nameless hanging in his chest. Still, he was not sorry. 

He was sure that no one wanted him around, no one would miss him--that much suited him just fine, for Starscream was not the sentimental sort. But he would rise, he would carve his name from those bright stars above, and finally find his way out of the canyon and over to the other side, would find a way to fly. His wings were strong, outlasting. He would realize a way to free himself and find a fortress among the stars, in the darkness and in the farthest strokes of the black sky and the black clouds, where no one would find him, and where he would find whatever it was he needed. He was a Seeker, after all.

But it was hard to keep going, to keep checking around the corners of the canyon and to put his feet down in the dark. He did not know how long he could continue like that. He followed the path of the river, where it had carved its way through the plateaus and left patterns, places, a sort of pavement on the bottom of stones. Perhaps, he thought, he could find somewhere to climb up the other side, a gentler slope or a good grappling point where he could get his talons and his toes into the cliffside. His body ached, the shock of it was slow returning to him, from having fought, from being tossed and throttled and knocked around. Steady, dull pain spreading, from the joints at first, then into the cables at his neck and into his spark chamber. Then there was no escaping it.

He endured. He had known so much worse, the pounding of his life going fast away, the fear of failing and being forgotten that followed him always, clutching his helm and his chin and driving him in certain directions. The pain and the fear were leading him now, away from any other living thing. He did not want to look into another face again. Not yet. 

The riverbed took him further, and the canyon narrowed somewhat on either side, cascading inwards. He walked in sheets of silver moonlight, expecting at some point to be shot or scolded or met with a dead end. But the path continued, and split in some places, so that he had to choose between the chasms, east and west and further into a foreign realm. 

He still had his weapons. He could still fight, if it came to that. And he _would_ fight--he would fight them all, anything to survive. Anything to escape them. And if he died here, at least he would be free, some alien creature, angry and alone, in the wild darkness with his wild spark, and with the stars...

Having gone a few miles now on foot, he tried to climb the wall, but could not. He could find no way to handle it, and the sediment slipped and crumbled under his fingers. Some way further, he tried again, but the wall there was too steep, standing almost at a vertical angle. The wind rushing down the side made a brief moaning sound and he stiffened against it, thinking someone had followed him there.

Without blinking he took aim, changing a forearm into a cannon, about to fire into the dark where the stones obscured so many of his surroundings. He went quietly forward, resenting the hold of the clamp on his wings and the possibility that someone would emerge from that space or from somewhere behind and kill him.

But there was nothing. Starscream shuddered and turned away. He kept along the path, trying not to dig at the rotten memories from earlier that day. Being cast out by his own faction, being mocked and driven out by another. He was truly alone now--him and his shadow, lost in this dark realm of a strange and sickly planet. He stained his wings against the restrains, rattling them, longing to leave this all behind--the pain along his back and in his chest cavity, in the ankles and the memoirs, bleeding out broken things and bits of ancient past. Too old for this. Increasingly tired. But he carried himself, battered and resentful, further along the riverbed, where the floor of it began to lean in one direction, and the stones were loose and lopsided. Here the canyon opened up a bit, rising ever slightly. He wasn't sure he could afford to stop here, but he had to take the chance. He did not know for how long he'd been walking, but the pain was becoming too much, overtaking him at last at full sprint. 

He knelt down in the dirt. There was no one around to see him do it, only the wind and the stones and the dried tears of the river, staining the canyon as guilt stains a name. 

He had come a long, long way. The dusty miles of earth and all light years over space seemed to settle together, on his shoulders, on his brows, on the tips of his cramped and shackled wings. He wondered if it mattered. Where he would go from here. How he could break the clamp, free himself and ascend closer to his skyward throne.  

Looking up for an answer, he realized it was here all along. Not for the first time, he stood, and backed his way into a corner. But this he had calculated, as he had calculated how much longer it may take. He had to start somewhere. And he was quite used to the pain.

_One._

He hit his wings against the side of the wall, shrieking metal, waning moon. Sparks of silver flying off in every direction, mourning the darkest hours that rode by and by, looming and lamenting, shaking on the wind. His fingers were clenched, and certainly aching at the joints; the pain was solid and growing sharper, severe. Most of it shattered in the space of his mind. 

_Two_.

Even shadows separated and escaped the high walls, leaving nothing in their wake, trapped to the earth where they ran and slashed at each other, cutting throats, curving beneath crevices. Blackness closing inward while the rust set in, he knew his place; the canyons stretched over edges, over decades, up and over till they made up the base of the sky. The dust settled somewhere--the stars called out only foreign words and faded, slivers now, scratching from behind day-old clouds. 

The rivets in his wings were quivering.

 _Three_.

His shoulders were scarred now, stiff from bordering iron clamps that kept him chained to a hard and broken ground. Binding him. The darkness was eternal--his eyes shifted and searched for any signs of movement near the mountains, a thread of hope, voices--but there were none. His two massive talons polished with fury and sorrow slipped down the side of the wall, not unlike the defiance that dressed his whole face.

And the earth, not quite moving below him, whispered ways to buried treasure. Coursing through his mind. Abandoned mines and ship wrecks but no place left to call home.

Again, he hurled himself at the stones, the sound of the impact echoing out, announcing his curdled rage, the silent vows,  the final crack of the seal as the clamp bent and fell at his feet. He shuddered again, crouched over its remains and spreading his claws that could cut through smoke rings and mirrors and gun barrels. This battle had been won, he'd beaten them and their rules of engagement, left so numb now he could barely stand. He bared the cursed teeth of a predator, starving, streamlined like the rest of him.

 It was in those brief moments that he remembered why he had fought and what he had suffered, and how he had arrived at this place. Because none of them were worth his time, or his trust, they would have expired where he could simply exist. He lifted his head, eyes on the horizon, knowing where to look across the tangle of night spells and mountain sides and the star maps pointing to the distance.

By now there might be a price on his head, and another price he'd have to pay. His Master would want to kill him, surely. He would never grant him the satisfaction. The resentment welled up within him and threatened to overflow, washing out the ache in his joints, dividing his attention. He cradled what was left of his strength, drawing power from rebellion and what he'd taken from this world to keep from drowning. The ground beneath his feet was unmoving, unsteady. Thin fragments of wind brushed past like a rumor and welcomed him to a story above. 

Ah, yes. Disappearing was easy; it was harder to come back to life.

\-- _Be the Falcon._

He rose and spread his wings into the dark, deserted air, abandoning that dead place, full of stones and tears and chains and walls. Rid of it at last. From his new vantage point, he could see the whole canyon at last, a vast canvas of crawlspaces and painted lines. He could have traced his own the path back to the Harbinger, to the stone arch and the hill and the rust-colored road. But he headed higher instead, alive at last, an emperor among the clouds, within the curtained stage of deep night. He left the canyon, and the stones, and the mountains. All around him was darkness, developing its voice ever patiently. He listened.

Such was the language of the dead and the damned. Higher he flew to escape. Here, he was fearless, where no one could catch or challenge him. He knew the sky, he knew the heartlines etched in this realm and the rules and spells of flight. From every vantage point, the Falcon's view of the world and the wretched creatures in it--he was the most wretched and wonderful of them all. Aimless was his voyage at first, as was the way of the stars. The stars for which he was named, with hidden power and tempered measure. 

_Star. Scream._ But how do stars scream? As they die, as they fade, making new forms from their old burning facades, and burning everything up on their stage. Those voices could be heard for miles and for centuries, taking with them what was left of the light.

New stars from death. He was a new star now.

They were beneath him. The world was beneath him. He scattered the clouds as he flew, wings great and silver and sacred. Burning the night with all of his anger, with his pride and his renunciation of those old warring factions. He _would_ be rid of them. It might take him eons, but he was ready to wait, to watch them burn and bury each other and draw out their terrible war. 

He was sick of it; he'd been its prisoner for several millennia, always in shadow, always escaping with his precious life. And he'd done it again, dancing here in the thick, black air, with his silver wings stretched and the starlight joining the beauty of his Spark. He went unimpeded through the silence, and the unspoken words of the world as it turned, heavy on its wounded waltz, transcending mortal worries. Dawn would break, in due time. He'd be there to welcome it. But for now, he kept rising, the afterburners lit against the swift pull of gravity, against all odds which befell him. Another stage to make himself, to make them remember his name. He'd made so many fatal errors.

Enter: death. Splinter: peace.

He'd had enough of this. All for shelter and for silence and hate, this attempt exchanged hand in hand for abeyance. The stars were watching him leave. 


End file.
